The magic that lures

The sun’s circle drifted slowly toward the horizon, casting its glow over the central square of the little town. A knight sat in the tavern, a touch tense, sipping his beer while watching the rowdy brats playing nearby.

As he looked at them, memories of childhood returned—though mostly its burdens. His parents had died early, leaving him to fend for himself: to hunt for scraps of food, to earn a coin however he could, to starve, to shiver, to grow up alone. It still felt unreal, the stroke of fortune that had come when he met a wandering monk skilled in martial arts—and became his disciple.

Sometimes he missed the monk dearly, but now he was a young man carving his own path. He longed to find his calling, to win glory, and to earn a worthy living.

Catching himself drifting into thought, he quickly downed his beer and rose to meet his fate. For this was an important day: his very first raid into a dungeon.

Youth and the thirst for heroic renown drove him straight into the hardest dungeon of all. And so, almost poetically, he perished at once on the very first floor. Foolish though it was, he was swiftly resurrected—and in those brief moments of death, cut off from his body, he understood: he needed not only a team but far more experience.

For weeks, he searched desperately for comrades, yet no one wished to join forces with a fledgling hero. Until suddenly…

While trudging through the muddy streets of Velvetraven Village after yet another rejection, he spotted a peculiar sight near the tavern’s back alley. A young woman sat cross-legged beside a pile of scrap metal, her fingers dancing with ethereal blue light as she methodically disassembled what appeared to be a broken clockwork automaton. Her clothes were practical—leather apron over sturdy cloth, tool belt hanging at her waist—but it was the focused intensity in her amber eyes that caught his attention.

“Artificer?” he ventured, approaching cautiously.

She looked up, wiping grease from her hands. “Former guild apprentice. And you’re the knight everyone’s been whispering about—the one who died on level one.” Her tone held no mockery, only frank assessment.

He winced. “Word travels fast.”

“Faster than common sense, apparently.” She gestured to the automaton parts. “This little fellow belonged to my last party. They ditched me when I couldn’t afford guild fees.” Standing, she dusted off her apron. “Name’s Lyra Gearwright. And before you ask—yes, I know you’re inexperienced, and no, I don’t care. Experience is earned, not inherited.”

The knight felt something stir in his chest—hope, perhaps. “Why would you want to partner with someone like me?”

Lyra smiled, a sharp edge to it. “Because desperate people fight harder, and broke people have nothing left to lose. Besides”—she hefted a peculiar crossbow from her workbench—“I’ve got enough tricks to keep us both breathing while you learn proper dungeon etiquette.”

Over the next few months, they devoted themselves to learning and sharing knowledge. Lyra had little hope of finding new companions—partly because she had lost faith in people, partly because she didn’t want to waste time.

Coping with a two-person team seemed impossible to the knight, especially after his foolish death, yet slowly he began to trust their partnership more and more.

Lyra was an exceptional teacher. Being expelled from the guild had done her good—she had not become arrogant like the other Masters. Still, mastering mana was difficult for him. He never truly understood how magic worked or how to feel it in his body. It seemed that without talent, nothing could be done.

Lyra, however, knew the secret: the fragile thread of belief—of confidence—could tame magic like a wild beast. She trained him persistently, seeing potential where others could not.

After another failed session, when he couldn’t even lift a single leaf (though the task was to raise a whole branch), he ran into the forest, seeking solitude. A sprawling maple caught his eye—he had never seen such a lush canopy, so vividly emerald. The tree was so beautiful he hugged it.

And then… real magic happened. The branches trembled, and he felt streams of air forming around the tree, mana flowing through his body, merging with its strength. They seemed to sing in unison. His heart swelled with joy because, for the first time, he felt a profound connection to the world around him.

He came back different. Not glowing or anything dramatic like that—just different in the way water tastes different after you’ve been really thirsty.

Lyra knew before he said a word. She was hunched over some contraption, probably cursing at a spring that wouldn’t sit right, when she felt it. The air grew thicker. Her tools started humming.

“So,” she said, not looking up. “What’d you promise it?”

That stopped him cold. “Promise what?”

“The forest. The magic. Whatever’s got its hooks in you now.” She finally met his eyes. “Nothing that old gives anything for free.”

But gods, could he use it. His sword moved like it was part of him now, like he’d been born holding it instead of fumbling with it for months. Plants leaned toward him when he walked past. Water pooled where he needed it.

The catch? Sometimes he’d stop mid-conversation, his head tilted as if listening to something just out of earshot. Sometimes his eyes went green-dark for a heartbeat too long.

“Thornwall Caverns,” Lyra said one morning, packing her gear with the kind of deliberate calm that meant she was nervous. “You ready?”

He nodded, though a tightness settled in his chest. In the back of his mind, he sensed it—patient and vast, simply waiting. It felt as if something had signed his name on a contract he had never read. The trees around their camp swayed without a breeze, and he wondered what exactly he had agreed to pay.

They had already spent a week in the dungeon, and it was a strange time. Instead of heroism and glorious battles, it was all hiding and running. Still, he understood Lyra was right: it was the best strategy to survive rather than fight every monster. Lyra had been here before—she navigated with ease, and that gave them an edge.

One morning, Lyra’s sharp cry tore him out of sleep. He hadn’t gathered his thoughts, but his hand was already gripping the sword. He reacted too quickly—she was only screaming in her sleep.

The next morning, it happened again, but this time he hesitated, and that was a mistake. This time, danger was real. A Lernaean Hydra came upon them, ferocious and huge. They tricked it, and while it struggled in the undergrowth, they escaped—but its pursuit soon resumed.

They ran blindly; if they were poisoned, only a healer of the highest rank could save them, and such people rarely came here.

Suddenly, the path ended. They found themselves in a vast chamber, with no choice but to fight. Lyra began weaving a dehydration spell while he distracted the Hydra. The battle was long, but he felt more strength and confidence here than he ever had on the surface.

Somehow, they managed to defeat the Hydra—though it dealt Lyra a grievous wound. She endured it, but he knew they needed help, even though they had no idea where they were.

Thus began the most fateful chapter of his life.

Lyra’s blood looked black in the dim chamber light—too much of it, spreading too fast.

“I’m fine,” she wheezed, the kind of lie people tell when they’re definitely not fine.

He pressed his hands against the wound, felt her life leaking through his fingers. The forest-thing in his head stirred, interested. It whispered something simple.

“There’s a way,” he said quietly.

“No.” Lyra grabbed his wrist with surprising strength. “Whatever you’re thinking—no. I’ve seen what happens when people make desperate bargains in dungeons.”

But she was fading. Her grip loosened. The whispers grew louder.

Just this once, they promised. Just to save her. What’s one small favor between allies?

He slowly raised his hand; that was the only push needed. He placed his palms flat against the stone floor. The dungeon’s roots ran deep here—old and hungry. They recognized him now, welcomed him like family. Power flowed up through his arms, warm and eager.

Lyra’s wound began to close. Color returned to her cheeks. Her breathing steadied.

“You idiot,” she whispered, but her voice was stronger. “What did you give up?”

He felt it before he could answer—the price settling into his bones like winter cold. His reflection in her eyes looked different now. Older. Something indefinable had changed in the architecture of his smile.

“I don’t know yet,” he said—and that was the truth. But deep in the green darkness behind his thoughts, something ancient and patient began to smile.

The transformation of his body and mind took place slowly but surely, like the rising of the tide. At first, he resisted, but soon even that faded; the process was inexorable. He said nothing to Lyra—she couldn’t help, and it seemed he no longer even wished it. Part of him was driven by curiosity; part by his own interpretation of heroism—altered, perhaps, but still bound to self-sacrifice and a higher purpose.

The alien force within him devoured all his emotions: the warmth he felt toward Lyra, the yearning for his parents, the thirst for adventure. It left untouched only one thing: the ever-growing sense of devotion to the dungeon.

Such was the price: not the loss of his body, but of his very self. From that moment until the end of his life, he would be part of the dungeon—its guardian, the keeper of its balance—until one day even his body became a part of it. From fragments of legend, he knew that a dungeon without a keeper would turn to chaos and sooner or later destroy itself.

He accepted this with dignity, as though it were a sacrifice to the gods—aware of his fate but seeing a greater value beyond it, and willing to give himself entirely.

Lyra watched him in silence, as though she sensed that the dungeon was enslaving him, making him its servant. And within her, a desire swelled, beating in her mind with every passing second: I will save him.

Lyra tried everything she knew – and several things she invented on the spot. Binding spells, severance rituals, even threatening to blow up half the dungeon with a contraption made from hydra scales and desperate fury.

He visited her dreams—not as he was changing, but as he was before: the boy who hugged trees and found magic in sunlight. In those dreams, they sat by imaginary campfires and discussed endings that made sense.

“I’m still me,” he told her one night, and she almost believed it when she saw the shape of his smile. “Just… more than me now.”

She woke to find him at the chamber’s edge, where solid stone blurred into something unrecognizable. His skin had grown rough and woody, like tree bark; his eyes were deep green, like the heart of a forest. Yet when she looked at him, she saw the same boy who’d once died on the first floor—changed but carrying stubborn hope.

“The dungeon dreams,” he said, and the wind carried his voice through the leaves. “I make sure they’re good dreams.”

She left behind a clockwork heart, crafted to echo her heartbeat no matter how far she roamed. And with every step, she felt the rhythm in the walls—the beat of kinship, forever pulsing.

“A fair price for a fair gift, wouldn’t you agree, adventurer?” That big smile showed deep fangs now. Those green eyes had turned magenta. Red horns pierced the shadows…

“Yes,” he said softly. “It’s all worth it – for her.”